By what witchery
does its image appear
a squall in the distance
of time and mind
an albatross
skimming the waves
on its endless flight
a shadow of a shadow
walking the edge of the earth
on pattering feet?

That first chill in the late summer air
ignites a primordial fear of mastodons with steaming flanks,
of watchful eyes in caves. The constellations flicker softly
over cattle frozen solid in Wyoming, in Montana,
in the Dakotas. They still stand. My belly squirms
with an urgency that feels both nostalgic and filled with dread.
I must tunnel deep. I will be hungry soon.
Tomorrow I wear black, and the true mourning can begin.
But there is no contest, no thought of struggle.
This you learn quickly, rising bloodied on the count of nine.
By third winter you submit gladly to the yoke.
You bend your back to carry the load
of your own particular sorrow—now,
strangely, your great romance as well.
Every morning you strap it across your shoulders,
slog to work beneath a sky that bows your head
with every imaginable prayer, with loss and lamentation.